She perches herself in front of her mirror
Resting on a peach vanity stool
Black lace accentuaes her curvature
She removes the eleastic band from her bun
Golden vines caress her shoulders
She brings her hairbrush closer
One stroke, two, three, four
Oh! How I wish I was that brush!
Each bristle s e p r a t i n g her delicte curls
I lay upon our bed gawking at her beauty
Thinking, "I am the luckiest girl alive!"
Out she pulls a tube from a tiny bag
Begins painting her lips into a pale rose
Her eyes as nude as the deserts sand
Standing over me she whispers "I'm ready, baby."
I lift my head, our eyes connect
She takes my hand in hers
I am the luckiest girl alive